


Copper Blows in the Judgement Hall

by Nazareth_Rose



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Action, Action/Adventure, Blood, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Family, Family Feels, Feels, Hatred, No Smut, Sans (Undertale) Dies, Scientist W. D. Gaster, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 06:02:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17054522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nazareth_Rose/pseuds/Nazareth_Rose
Summary: Just my own interpretation of Sans' death in Undertaker's Genocide route as to why we don't see him die onscreen.What if his father, Dr. Gaster, had a part in this, had a part in helping him, had a part in the fate of every monster in the Underground?Note: inspired by another story called Short Story GSXR by GirlWonder26





	Copper Blows in the Judgement Hall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GirlWonder26](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GirlWonder26/gifts).



“Sansone Merryweather Gaster, I don't care how fine you say you are. I'm coming with you.”  
His eyes darted, fixing with earnest on the clock, then the booth counter, then the clock again.  
He was going to the Final Corridor, and there was no way his father could stop him. Around them, Grillby’s was constantly in a manic pressure of awakeness, the survivors calling the bar home for as long as they could. They were both in the booth, as the main table was the closest thing the Underground could find to the hospital, the original doctors’ kindhearts all stopping, one by one. Grillby still stood at his spot, trying to hand out the last of his lager to those who were old enough, cooking up burgers at a manic pace to those too young to drink. Heavens knew they needed something to drown their troubles. His own burger felt hot enough to make his hands hurt, but it had enough ketchup on it to smother it. Ketchup started to drip on the table, and Sans apologized, wiping it up with one of the napkins. The lights smiled in a mellow breeze, friendly enough to welcome even the Fallen Child. But they were a demon, a demon that had started in the purple reaches of the Ruins, left their own mother writhing with knifecuts. They then raged through everywhere they could run, each and every beating heart cut short with the tip of a knife. And Papyrus… Papyrus… He wiped a stray tear on his cheek, blamed it on the perpetual Snowdin cold. He had to stop the Fallen Child. The instinct, no, the mission, flowed through his bones. He was going to the Final Corridor, and there was no way his father could stop him.  
“Agh. Fine, Dad. I just don't want you getting hurt, either…”  
Dr. Gaster summoned an attack and smiled, the same smile Sans had taken, shaped morphed, perfected for his life. It was three bones, easily bigger and deeper than any of Sans’ average bones were. He knew what he was born with, his 1 HP taunting him, telling him he'd never reach that fortitude. But his father still worked each and every day, coming home having the signature slumped shoulders of a failure. He had to gain some sort of credit. He was his father, after all. Even if he didn't move a muscle or bone to work, and Sans had to cart home every dollar, he'd still get credit. He was his father, after all. He gave his son the life he didn't deserve. Not after what he was about to do in the king's hallway, anyway. It was all Sans could do to smile back. The chair squeaked underneath him as he stood. He patted his father, the pat turning into a hug.  
“C’mon, old man. Let’s go b’fore I chicken out on you.”  
…  
Dr. Gaster had always been too busy with work to see his son batter one of the practice dummies to death, but as he sat outside of the corridor hallway, the lights and statues of countless saints streaming into his eyes and coat, he wished he had seen him. The Fallen Child kept on coming back, but Sans was always the same. He was beautiful. He was insane. He was life itself. He was a ruthless coma. He was tears. He was blood. He was fear. He was love. The fire streaming from his eye… God. If only he could have taught him. For all his beautiful terror, he still had so, so much more madness to learn.  
Eighteen hours. Eighteen hours, one for each year of his son’s life. Then it was over; his son had not turned nineteen. His son collapsed, ready to rest. Dr. Gaster had to keep himself from following his son, his eyes closing. Where were they? Where was the Fallen Child? Maybe they were dead. Maybe his son had done it, really done it. Maybe they were with Asgore. They all could rest for quite awhile now. He leaned onto the wall, leaning his head against the door. He let himself be pulled down by the weight of his own exhaustion, sweeping with a sweet song into his own sleep… gentle, gentle, gentle… gentle… gentle….  
He wasn’t woken up until he felt himself being shook. Rain, warm, spring rain, was falling on his face. He’d fallen asleep outside again, too exhausted after his day at work. Not now, Sans, not yet, Papyrus. Let your dad sleep for five more minutes alright? Let your dad-  
“Dad. Dad, dad. Please. I dunno if I- ugh, guess this is starting to hurt to the maxillae, heh. Dad. Dad, wake up.”  
The rain was swaying. Why would a raincloud sweep so quickly across the sky? He groaned, pried his eyes open. The rain turned red.  
Everything in Dr. Gaster stopped, reverted to some horrible, primeval experiment, sitting up, gently prying his son’s hand off of his chest.  
“Dad. Dad, don’t worry ‘bout it, okay? Dad, I’m fine. Dad, stop, I...”  
A gash, crying, one of the deepest he’d seen on him, wept from his right shoulder to his left hip.  
It was the most agonizing six seconds of silence that either of them could remember. Save for the first drip on the ground, a gasp of pain that could only be heard with the trembling, throbbing silence, there was nothing. Nothing.  
“...I’m sorry. They still went right past me and right to Asgore. Not to mention slicing me up like I was a vegetable, heh, agh. I guess I shoulda tried to boost my HP or somethin’. They could be dead right now for good if I did that…”  
“Nono. You did fine, son. A fine job. This child’s just… horrible, that’s all. Your brother, he’d… he’d be proud.”  
Sans found he had to put his free hand on the door for support as the thoughts of Papyrus swam into his mind. Papyrus. Papyrus. Sans was such a terrible brother. All of the times he’d made fun of Papyrus for his quirks while he was alive. How often he’d lock Papyrus out of Sans’ room whenever Papyrus wanted something simple, something that would only take a few minutes. And now, Sans was a mess, a pathetic mess, far from avenging him. Far from avenging anyone. There was a thousand people, a thousand survivors, a thousand hearts still beating back in the stronghold. Little kids, too… He was a terrible person, he supposed. Terrible for having fallen asleep in battle, out of all the moments in his life. That was the only explanation for this. For any of this.  
Dr. Gaster already felt his pulse rising. “Look. Just get us to Grillby’s, and then we can put this all behind us. Then we can maybe set up some barricades for the castle, give the King some reinforcements, launch a counter strike. But you just need to get us to Grillby’s, alright? My teleportation skills aren’t… heh… one hundred percent, as you would say…”  
Sans nodded, blinking fast, swallowing. Dr. Gaster knew he was holding back tears, but his father was a scientist, not a monster. He wouldn’t shout it to the mountains; he had his own tears to hold back. He was a scientist, not a hypocrite.  
Dr. Gaster grabbed onto Sans’ free hand, the other trying to cover his torso. Dr. Gaster still couldn’t help but squeeze it as the light that was normally in a teleport pulsated, faulted, faded, pulsated again. He knew it was pain; otherwise, the teleport would be one clear, blue light. He knew too much, too much for the world to hold or tolerate.  
They were out of the judgement hall, a tinge of copper still hanging in the air.  
…  
Sans teleported himself and his father in front of the barstool. At least Sans still had a trace of sense left inside of him, sense he thought had died back at the eighteen- hour- long battle. His father fumbled around the barstool.  
“Give me some space- Alphys, I know you're doing your experiments there- Alphys, please- he's hurt. The Fallen Child managed to get into the palace. Asgore’s got them under control, but I’m not sure how long. At the very least, we may want to rethink our strategy.”  
“I-I mean, I…”  
Sans swayed, although no one except the people who were taught to notice, people like Alphys and Dr. Gaster, knew what it was. He pretended to lean on one of the walls, feigned a hallway stance, still smiling, still smiling.  
“A-alright.” Alphys picked up each object with a biologist’s cautiousness. Dr. Gaster grimaced a little and tried to stretch out his hand, but he was greeted by a little yelp and then a slap. Dr. Gaster’s hand burned to the point to where it started throbbing, but he didn’t mind. He deserved it. He deserved everything that had happened. Sans noticed a child was staring at him from one of the booths, eyes wide, wordless, a horror movie unfolding in front of his eyes. Sans tried to cover his cut, rearranged it three times, the child still staring. God, that little kid didn’t deserve this, whoever he was.  
“God, it's cold here kid, huh? Heh. I, uh… didn't Grillbz think to get a heater? I mean, people could freeze to death in here. I, mean… uh, I, hehehe, I, aah…”  
Sans trembled, and before he realized what he needed to do, the world flipped upside down. He tried to latch on to anything, anything, almost grabbing on a poor old lady’s billfold before his father’s arm parried across the small of his back. As Dr. Gaster had practiced so many times before, even when he himself was Sans’ age, he moved the other hand to his son’s legs and picked him up.  
“No one’s looking, son.” Their eyes pierced Dr. Gaster, but he didn’t know how much the color red numbed Sans’ sense of discomfort. Hopefully, it was enough. But no matter if it did or not, Sans nodded, although he did try to teleport once or twice, the blue fire dying before it could reach a high enough pitch. He set him on the barstool, knocking off a stray full glass of lager, and Sans was grateful for the shattering noise being louder than his“aAAagh-”  
Dr. Gaster’s eyebrows furrowed, followed by a frown, and Sans no longer put his trust in beer glasses.  
“Hey, Dad, it’s fine, I’ll take care of it, I’m the one who got into this mess in the first place-”  
Dr. Gaster only had to shake his head no before Sans quieted, at least for a little while. Besides, Sans was tired. Almost as tired as he was back in the corridor, before he’d made that stupid, stupid, stupid little mistake that was why he ended up here in the first place. God, he really was pathetic. Lazy, weak, and stupid to top it all off. One more reason to stay quiet.  
“O-okay, everyone,” Alphys muttered. “O-okay, e-e-everyone!” she said, standing on top of one of the tables. “W-we need to get out of the R-ruins, th-the Fallen Child managed to proceed to Asgore, and w-we all need to go someplace safe.”  
At least half of the survivor’s tried to look around Alphys, tried to see what was happening at the barstool.  
“W-what are you doing, guys?” She stooped down, picked up a fork and a spoon, banged them against each other, maybe even stomped her foot once or twice. “G-get moving, get moving!”  
The bar was all aglow, the chairs all starting to squeak as they moved backwards, half of the people in the bar counting very quickly their reasons to go, half of the people in the bar already out the door by the time three minutes passed. Five minutes, and the bar was alone, the wind whispering through the windows the only other voices other than the father and sons’.  
Sweat poured. Sans’ brightness he carried with him all his life paled- not faded. He shuddered, the cold going deeper. He lifted his left hand, his powers flowing. Before the battle, they were an ocean, a cavern, but now a stuttering blue puddle giving way to a red one.. A tablecloth groaned, the silverware plummeting and crashing in screams as the tablecloth was pulled off the table.  
Dr. Gaster set a hand on Sans’. In an instant, as if Dr. Gaster's hand was an anvil, Sans stopped. Without a word, Dr. Gaster heaved himself from the barstool, carrying the tablecloth back to Sans.  
“It's alright, son. You’ve used your powers quite excessively already. This is all normal. Here, a bandage, tablecloth, just press down, okay? I'll do it too...”  
This is all normal. This is all normal. This is all normal. How hard it was for Dr. Gaster to convince himself that. The dust hanging in the air no matter where he went, bringing his asthma to a full rage, Papyrus, oh, Papyrus…  
All of the medical textbooks ravaged through Dr. Gaster's head, all of the procedures, all of the first aid classes. They all seemed like a faraway dream, a fairytale. They were talked about, but nothing happened. It was just like God, Heaven, Hell. All a myth.  
After a few minutes, Dr. Gaster noticed he was shaking. Shaking hard enough to rattle the barstool. Whether or not it was a byproduct of his mind or the heat of the hour, he didn't know. He didn't care. He was panting. He was panting. He took a deep breath, finding a sob fleeing at the top of the inhale. A sob. God. His son didn't deserve to see him like this. Nobody deserved to see him like this, not even himself.  
A hand, small as ever, landed on Dr. Gaster's knee.  
“Don't, cry, old, man, I'll, be, fine…”  
Dr. Gaster's breathing was normal, Sans’ still at a rapid rabbit's pace.  
Oh, no.  
The words “hypovolemic shock” echoed, over and over and over. Resetting. Hypovolemic shock. Not this. Not this, not this, not this. WhywhywhywhyWHY  
WHY  
WHY  
Why  
Why-  
There was no time for this. No time for this. Dr. Gaster knocked over the barstool as he got up, ran to find a book, a stool, something, anything to raise his son's legs. He was scrambling just by the textbook now, its words the only fuel in his veins. Minutes of pressing, adding, pressing, WHY, pressing, pressing. Even without touching, Dr. Gaster could feel Sans’ heart following the rabbit’s pace, and Dr. Gaster’s hands faltered before getting the stool in front of him. Maybe he could… just talk to him… stop this race the textbook told him to do… maybe he could…  
What was he thinking? He was a scientist, not a monster. And if he was a monster, he wasn’t double the monster he made himself out to be. He gritted his teeth, followed the textbook, got the stool. Sans tried to sit up, although he could only lift up his head a little, tried one last “I’ll, be, fine” that almost made Dr. Gaster take back the barstool. But the barstool still ended up where it should be.  
Minutes passed, and not one word was spoken. Sans’ torso was a fire, each bandage only taking a smattering of the red edges from the flame. Pressing, pressing, adding, pressing, adding. He shivered and coughed from deep in his core, put his hand to his mouth, pulled it away to find it was covered in red. Oh, no. Not his father. Not Alphys. Not them, not everyone else who had managed to survive this bastard. They had to be happy. Laughing, at the least. He tried to make a pun involving Grillby about the fiery pain in his torso, but Dr. Gaster's face warped so conductively in horror that Sans stopped. If only Papyrus could hear his jokes… a red scarf bowed from Sans' right shoulder to his left hip...Sans never chased the scarf from his mind afterwards...Papyrus…  
“Papyrus?” It was a groan, not full fledged. It wasn't as small as a whimper, not as loud as a sob.  
All of the blood drained from Dr. Gaster's own face. He shook him with each call of his name, shook him until the cutlery on the bar table sang. “Sans? Sans, I need you to listen to me, alright? Sans, you're bleeding too much, you're entering a very advanced stage of hypovolemic shock, you're delirious, Papyrus isn't here, Papyrus…”  
He gasped, and the tears painfully retreated back into his soul. All but one. It landed, landed on top of Sans’ jacket, and it mixed with the wound, wept in a tiny, red branch off to the side.  
“...Papyrus isn't here. Son, I need you to keep on pressing down, alright? Just keep on pressing down. That's all I need you to-”  
“Dad.” Sans' eyes fixed to a patch in the wall, a land faraway, a land Dr. Gaster couldn't hope to get in. He’d done too much, gave in to temptation too much, followed the will of demons too much. Hell was the only land he could hope to believe now. “Papyrus, he's-”  
Dr. Gaster wasn't sure what force inside of him made him stop. Maybe it was an instinct or an overconfidence that Sans could take care of himself. It had happened before when Sans was nine, when he'd been left home alone with Papyrus overnight. Sans had gone out to buy groceries, the three o'clock moon pouncing on him, the drugged teenage gangs looming closer, closer. Dr. Gaster didn't even notice the battle wounds until Sans had screamed in pain one day, trying to carry a bundle of wood by himself. The blood drank red from at least three wounds, all bigger and deeper, more profound than this one. A handful of snow and a few weeks in the hospital wasand a few weeks in the hospital all Dr. Gaster had needed to treat them...all he'd needed..  
There was a hospital then.  
Papyrus couldn't be here. Dr. Gaster was a scientist. He shouldn't believe in God, or Mary, or angels, or any fairytale creature of the sort. He shouldn't- but there was one thing- one thing he could believe in with genuine conviction-  
“Love you, Dad.”  
At “Dad”, a smile, wider than the resets, brighter than the depression, spread across Sans’ face. The last bandage soaked through.  
His hand slackened, hitting the counter.  
Dr. Gaster slumped his head, gently, gently now, on the cut across his son’s chest.  
He wailed  
and wailed  
and wailed  
and wailed  
and wailed…  
……..  
“Alphys? What do we do now?”  
Alphys knew better than to disturb Dr. Gaster whenever he was working. Not if she didn't want another cut on her back, that was. All of the others were muttering, trying to pack their things for the wilderness that was the Ruins. The questions mounted, the sweat beaded on Alphys’ skin, and she launched into one of her stuttering speeches.  
That was until a wail echoed from the bar, heard through shut doors.  
A knife stabbed through Alphys’ heart. The others fumbled into silence, first by curiosity, then by submission. Every child, every man and woman, adult or elderly, jumped into the same silence. One of the children who lived in Snowdin burrowed his head in his mother's dress and cried, having just turned five at a party the Gaster neighbors threw for him.  
“Well…” Alphys half- murmured. One of the survivors coughed. “The Fallen Child’s moved on to Asgore. And A-Asgore's big and strong, way stronger than Sans! He can fix this. Just hang on, everyone. Th-the Ruins is much safer, you'll see!”  
The conversation started again, but only to a rumbling as the monsters picked up their bags and headed, for most of them, away from home.  
Alphys backtracked a little, a ways away from the rest, just far enough do that she could still hear and feel the little-stabs of Dr. Gaster's sobbing.  
She crouched down in front of a tree, hoping the snow wouldn't fall on her, and repeated what she'd heard countless times from some of the other survivors…  
“Our Father, who is in Heaven, hallowed be Your name, Your kingdom come, Your will be done…”


End file.
